Words--The Best Weapons in the World!
by TheNewGuy38
Summary: "Books! The best weapons in the world!" When Harry sees this, he becomes intrigued and asks what it's supposed to mean. What follows is a Harry that can wield mankind's greatest power… A power the Dark Lord uses, but doesn't exactly know the full power of.
1. Chapter 1

"Books! The greatest weapons in the world!" When Harry sees this, he becomes intrigued and asks what it's supposed to mean. What follows is a Harry that can wield mankind's greatest power… A power the Dark Lord uses, but doesn't _exactly_ know.

Disclaimer: Any and all familiar-looking things that seem like you've seen them somewhere before are not owned or affiliated with me. These things may include, but are not limited to: the various works of J.K. Rowling; the Doctor Who, Supernatural, Assassin's Creed, Dragon Ball (Z, GT and Super), and Disney franchises. Others may be mentioned, and they are all owned and created by their own various owners, not me.

Words. Such fascinating things, they are. A bunch of funny little lines in strange patterns, vibrations in the air, but capable of so much. Sticks and stone may break your bones, but words can save, or end, hundreds of lives. They have a magic all their own, but often go overlooked. If one learns to wield them effectively…

Why, they might just save the world!

Harry walked down the empty street on a hot and lazy Sunday afternoon away from Privet Drive. This summer had been far from the best for him. First with the sudden death of Cedric (that he had mostly put behind him by now), then with the total block of communication about Voldemort from anyone with empty reassurances like "keep your head down, don't cause trouble" were starting to grate on him. Even _Sirius_ , Marauder Extraordinaire, was telling him to not cause trouble. There was something very wrong with that, judging by all the stories he'd heard about the man.

So, tired as he was of stewing in his own frustration and helplessness, he had made up his mind to visit one of his old childhood haunts: the library. It was always a welcome place of solace away from all the Dursleys, since Dudley would never set foot in it and he always stayed there after school. Even just an hour whenever he could, was enough to let him relax and breathe. The librarian always kept an eye on him, but never got invasive about it. Harry would have no clue what to look for to read now, since all the kid's books would likely be intensely boing now.

Finally making it to the library, he stopped to stare for just a moment. The place had been heavily renovated in the past 5 years since he was last here. There was no longer a feel of a dusty old library any more, it was more of a modernized look. Brighter and more recently polished woods made up every desk surface, and the window panes were no longer fogged and scratched. It made a much lighter and airy mood, more friendly to the average bookworm. Part of him missed the old, darker, moodier atmosphere, but it was a welcome and refreshing change to be in such a warm place.

Warm though it was, it was still Sunday, and the library was still sparsely occupied. That suited Harry just fine, as he would prefer to read the day away in relative silence and solitude. He went over to the fantasy section on a whim, just to compare and maybe get some ideas for new things to try with actual magic. Well, maybe it was more to get lost in a good story, but that's how he'd justify it.

On arrival to the designated section, however, he noticed a large poster with a quote: "You want weapons? We're in a library! Books! The best weapons in the world!" He stood there, staring at it, trying to make sense of what it was supposed to mean. Apparently for some time, as he was roused from his thoughts by a polite cough from what he could only assume was the librarian. Said librarian wore a plain pinstriped suit, had brown hair combed forward fashionably, and he wore black square-rim glasses. Underneath was a blue button-up collared shirt, with what appeared to be a second, brown shirt of the same style underneath.

"Need any help, lad?" said his Scottish-tinged voice.

"Oh, er, sorry Mr…," Harry glanced at his nametag (John Smith), "Smith. I was just trying to figure out what was meant by that quote on the wall there," he replied, pointing it out.

"Ah, I see now! Well, what've you been able to puzzle out so far?" asked the Librarian with a smile and a clever glint in his eye.

"Erm, well, it's the books part that's got me mixed up, sir. What makes books so… powerful?"

"Oh, books are wonderful! So much bigger on the inside, they can have whole worlds, even their own entire universe! Not to mention all the wonderful things you can learn. But it's not really the books that the basic part, see," said Smith with a passion.

"Huh? Then, what is it?" Harry asked, looking confused.

"It's the words _in_ them that really do it, lad. I could tell you everything that happens in a book with just a few sentences, and you'd not care a bit about it. But these books tell such wonderful stories, create such marvelous characters, that you will _never_ forget about them. With just ink on a page, the writer can make you _feel_ for the people in them, even though you've never met or seen them in real life."

Harry turned back to the quote again and thought on the impromptu speech he'd been given. "Huh. I… guess I never really thought about it that way."

Mr. John Smith chuckled. "Yeah, not many do. But words can do so much _good_ in the world, _change_ so many things..."

"Yeah, they really can, can't they?" Harry said, more to himself than the Librarian.

"Well, kid, I guess we're all just stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?"

Harry paused for a moment. "Why would you-?" He turned to the other man, only to find himself alone. "Where… did he go? Hello?" he called. There was no reply.

"Ok, that was… odd. But…," Harry turned to the quote on the wall again, "he _did_ have a good point…"

And in that moment, like a butterfly flapping its wings, a small and insignificant choice was made that caused an ever-so-slight, yet monumental change to the future.

Harry thought to himself, _Maybe I should learn how to use this 'power of words' like he said. Wouldn't hurt to try, at least._

A/N: I was pretty heavy on the hints for it, but anyone know who Mr. John Smith the Librarian was a reference/cameo for? Make your own head-fanon for it if you want, he's unlikely to make another appearance unless it's for an omake or something. Thanks for reading, and please:

REVIEW!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Any and all familiar-looking things that seem like you've seen them somewhere before are not owned or affiliated with me. These things may include, but are not limited to: the various works of J.K. Rowling; the Doctor Who, Supernatural, Assassin's Creed, Dragon Ball (Z, GT and Super), and Disney franchises. Others may be mentioned, and they are all owned and created by their own various owners, not me.

Harry, if he was being honest with himself, had to say he was addicted by now. He couldn't get enough. Stealing to get his fix was a common occurrence now. _Still, it could be worse… It's not like it's some drug or something!_ Harry thought to himself as he tucked away yet another work of literature under his baggy shirt. Who would have thought those cast-offs would come in handy?

Easily slipping around the theft detectors, due to practice combined from years of avoiding Dudley, Harry began to make his way back to Number 4. This would mark the 7th volume he had "borrowed" from the library since that odd encounter 3 weeks ago, that started his recent obsession. Granted, he had read a great deal more than just 7 books (and read faster and faster the longer time passed), but the best of them he wanted to keep for himself. Iconic volumes from certain series, like _Magician_ , he wanted to keep for himself. The second installment of _The Chronicles of Amber_ was also squirreled away under his bed with _Ender's Game_. Others were more practical from certain points of view, like a guide of pressure points and "soft spots" on a human body that had self-defense tips along with acupuncture basics. Another worth mention was a guide to "mind reading" that had guides on subtle body cues and micro-expressions along with methods of persuasion. That was by far his best practical book, and he had pored over it multiple times to learn all he could from it.

Harry silently made it through the front door of the Dursley residence and up to Dudley's second bedroom to hide his ill-gotten gains for the day. He _had_ felt a little guilty at first, stealing from a library of all places, but it wouldn't be the first time he's committed theft to aid his continued survival. It's not like there was any way he would ever be able to get a library card anyway. The only Muggle ID he had was his old primary school card, and showing a 4-year old photo wouldn't do anything to help him with the crotchety old lady librarian.

And there was no way on earth he would jeopardize his library availability now, not when he had gotten such clear results. One notable achievement, at least on a personal level, was his compromise with Vernon: Harry would get things done in the morning, and in return he would be left alone. Of course, the handy bluff of a rune-carved pebble that was "to call help in an emergency" was a handy threat. The added platitude of having none of them deal with "his lot" soothed any rage there may have been towards him.

Harry looked at his little secret library again. Things were getting crowded down there, and he was losing faith in his ability to keep them hidden. And he didn't think he was skilled enough yet to convince any of the Dursleys that they _weren't_ stolen, and consequently being banned from the library. Come to think of it, he wanted to take these with him to Hogwarts, didn't he? The trunk didn't have enough room for all of them…

Wait, didn't Mad-eye Moody have that expanded trunk last year? That would have more than enough room for everything he'd ever need! Plus, if Crouch Jr. was keeping the real Moody inside all year, there's a chance he could literally live out of his trunk, Dursleys and Dumbledore be damned! The question now was, how in the world could he get around Diagon Alley without being swarmed or even noticed like first year?

XxXxXxXxX

A newly-bleached blonde Harry strolled into the Leaky Cauldron and focused on looking at ease and not panicking. He wore some better-fitting, but still second-hand clothes from a store down the street that he had been forced to pay for, along with a new pair of glasses and a messenger bag that were, of course, pilfered from a different store. All those combined with longer, tamed hair and a more confident air made Harry a whole new man. Which was, of course, the entire point of the whole endeavor. Form this point on, he would no longer go by Harry, instead opting for the pseudonym Terry Smith. It was close enough to his real name, and there were so many Smith families in the world there was little chance anyone would ever be able to call him out on it.

Harry wished he hadn't had to dye his hair, but getting his hands on a wig had proved impossible, since nowhere nearby had any and he didn't know a place that would. After realizing that, he had decided to go as far as logically possible with altering his appearance, something he got a surprising amount of help from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's _Sherlock Holmes_ books. Granted, mentions of it were sparse, but it had inspired a brainstorm that led to surprising discoveries in the game of disguise he had to play. Most of a good disguise, it turned out, came not just from clothing or makeup, but more from your general attitude and how you carried yourself. It helped to create a character to play a role for and to act like or mimic. It took a bit of higher-level thinking and a fair amount of discipline, but Harry had those in spades when he needed them.

Presently, he glanced around casually as he strolled towards the back and returned Tom the barkeep's friendly wave with a, hopefully, charming and easy smile. Terry was a nice guy, so it would pay to be a little friendlier to anyone he might have to interact with. Hopefully he could avoid too much of that by putting a smidge of hurry into his step, to seem like he was a little busy. Making nice with the shopkeepers was a given of course, but any of Harry's friends or acquaintances stood a chance of recognizing him.

Luckily, it seemed a good time for him to have made this trip, as the Alley was still sparsely populated for the moment. He made his way to Gringotts quickly, but not too quickly. A brisk walk was perfect for seeming busy but not suspicious. Strolling casually through the open doors, he gave a respectful nod to the warriors on guard. No way did he want to be anything less than respectful to something waving around a weapon as sharp and pointy as those halberds looked. He did catch a split-second of stiffness from them before they gave a shallow bow back, almost as if he had caught them off-guard with the gesture. Harry frowned momentarily after making it to the main room before shrugging it off. If the average magical was stupid enough to write them off after 7 "rebellions" (aka _wars_ ), that was their problem.

He walked up to one of the free tellers and offered a polite, "Excuse me," to the goblin filling out paperwork at his high desk. There was absolutely no response to this, so he repeated slightly louder, "Excuse me?" The goblin just went right on with his paperwork. _What a jerk,_ thought Harry. _Well, I guess I need something to get his attention… Wait, aren't goblins a warrior race? Maybe some kind of Aiel or Kelewan greeting, or similar?_ Deciding to at least give it a try, Harry thought for a moment before addressing the surly goblin again: "May the hordes of your enemies flee before your blade, Teller."

The response was rather dramatic, for what little he knew of goblins in person, but it was very telling. The creature's head jerked up with widened eyes at the same time as the quill he wrote with snapped from the knee-jerk reaction of a clenched fist. In what could only be described as shock, the goblin stuttered out, "A-and, and may your vaults overflow with gold, Wizard." He cleared his throat and took a moment to compose himself. "How may Gringotts help you today?"

Harry was only partially successful in suppressing the smug smirk a provoking such a reaction from the goblin. "I would like to access my vault, but am not currently in possession of the key for it. Might there be any alternate methods of identification to verify that I'm me?"

"Name?"

"Harry Potter," he replied in a lower voice, subtly exposing his trademark scar for a moment.

The goblin had another curious reaction now: narrowed eyes, slightly flared nostrils, and an ever-so-slight tightening of the shoulders. _Why is he so suspicious all of a sudden? Must be the hair. Maybe I did_ too _well on the disguise?_

"Follow me," was the gruff instruction he received, making Harry finally nervous about how the mood had changed so suddenly. The goblin almost sounded irritated now, instead of mildly apologetic like before. What had he done to warrant this now?

XxXxXxXxX

A/N: I know, I'm horrible for the cliffhanger, yadda yadda yadda, but it's pretty late and I need my beauty sleep. Still, thanks for reading and

REVIEW! PLEASE! FEEDBACK!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Any and all familiar-looking things that seem like you've seen them somewhere before are not owned or affiliated with me. These things may include, but are not limited to: the various works of J.K. Rowling; the Doctor Who, Supernatural, Assassin's Creed, Dragon Ball (Z, GT and Super), and Disney franchises. Others may be mentioned, and they are all owned and created by their own various owners, not me.

XxXxXxXxX

Harry followed the goblin with well-hidden nervousness through a few hallways in Gringotts. Who knew not having his key would be such an issue? He was really regretting letting Molly keep it for the summer again, but risking the Dursleys extorting it from him somehow was just too risky. Or, at least, it seemed that way at the time…

The goblin abruptly stopped at one of the dozens of identical doors in the hall, knocked twice, poked his head in and snarled something guttural at whoever was inside. _Was that native goblin? Wonder if I could learn it, or at least understand it._ Harry's escort received a snarl in return, prompting the goblin to open the door fully and wave him in with a toothy grin. He gave a confused look in return, but the goblin's only response was to shut the door behind him.

"Sit," prompted a voice in the room with an audible sneer. Turning to face the voice, and _totally_ _not panicking_ , Harry saw another goblin with sharper features sitting at a plain office desk. Said desk was currently empty but for a shallow bowl, an ornate knife, and a long piece of parchment. The goblin waved to the seat in front of him impatiently, looking grumpy. Harry sat smoothly in the chair and looked at the bowl again. It seemed to be made of a brownish clay, and was adorned with many carvings. At a second glance, he realized that the carvings weren't decorative, but functional: both the inside and outside were covered in runes. Noticing similar, but far fewer, runes on the blade next to it, he came to a conclusion. The set was meant to use his blood to properly ascertain his identity. Something he was NOT comfortable with.

Over the past few weeks, Harry had been reading many, many books, a good deal of which were magical fantasy. It gave him a good general idea of how magic, in principle, worked. One common theme in many of said books was _DO, NOT, MESS, WITH, BLOOD MAGIC_. Aside from being incredibly dangerous and morally abhorrent, because usually human sacrifice was involved, blood magic as a whole was extremely versatile. It was easily within the realm of possibility that, with only a drop of blood, someone could kill you from halfway across the world without you even realizing it until you were at death's door. In fact, that very thing happened once: an evil witch made a voodoo doll and tied to the king of a neighboring country using a week-old, blood soaked rag stolen from his personal quarters. After traveling high in the mountains, she simply stabbed the doll through the heart with a leatherworking needle and then buried it. The king died, presumably of a heart attack, in that same moment. Moral of the story: never let your blood out of your sight without it being burned, cleaned, or having suitable precautions in place to make sure you won't die of mysterious circumstances.

Knowing this, Harry first questioned the goblin: "I was under the impression blood magic was illegal in Britan."

The goblin sneered, "Gringotts is sovereign territory, and as such is not subject to the laws you petty wizards concoct in your fool ministry."

"And what assurances do I have that none of my blood will be 'misplaced' and used for… nefarious purposes?" Harry was extremely thankful for his now increased vocabulary. The Harry people knew would _never_ have been able to talk like this. He could probably give a good show against the senior Malfoy now, if he had to.

"While your concern is understandable, Gringotts does not make a habit of endangering its clientele. However, should you prove to be someone other than who you say you are… The consequences would be quite lethal, I assure you," the goblin said, giving another toothy, eager grin.

Harry paused for a moment, then decided to indulge himself, "How lethal, exactly?"

"Seeing as the person you are attempting to impersonate is currently quite popular and valuable to the ministry, I would say… somewhere between months in Azkaban to immediate execution." The bloodlust on the word "execution" was easily palpable. Still, it had nothing on Ol' Voldy.

"Well, I am pleased to see that you take your security so seriously," Harry replied as he easily leaned over to take the knife, none of his earlier tension apparent now. "Palm or wrist?"

The goblin blinked in surprise at the sudden change in attitude and casual question. "Palm," it still managed to say.

Harry easily dragged the razor-sharp ritual blade across his hand and squeezed it to let a small pool of blood form in the bowl before moving away. A small rush of heat flooded the wound, and he looked to see it completely healed. The goblin had recovered by now and tapped the bowl muttering something in its species tongue that caused the bowl to glow a pale blue for all of a second. It waited another three before lifting the bowl and pouring the blood on the near-forgotten parchment. The blood pooled, then soaked into the paper and began to write. A tree-like structure began to form, and Harry caught sight of "Lily Potter nee Evans" before it was snatched up by the goblin.

Harry waited patiently for the goblin's perusal to finish, and observed it closely. He hadn't noticed before, but its clothes weren't made of cotton or wool or similar materials. If he had to guess, it bore a close resemblance to leather padded armor he had seen an illustration of in a manual somewhere. There was also a dagger on each hip in the same kind of leather. The goblin's preparation was admirable.

The notes Harry was making were suddenly interrupted when he noticed it's expression had changed. The furrowed brow, slight frown, and narrowed eyes spelled out a greater part confusion with an undertone of suspicion.

"Mr. Potter," the goblin suddenly spoke, "to your knowledge, are there any siblings you may have?"

Harry was caught off guard with the abrupt query. "Er, no, sir…"

"This test says that you do. However, said sibling has no connection to either of your birth parents somehow"

Harry suddenly had a thought that churned his stomach at the thought. He sighed and put his head in his palm, resigning himself to it if his hunch was right. "What was his name?"

"Tom Marvalo Riddle, Jr."

XxXxXxXxX

A/N: PLOT TWIST! Haha, don't worry, they won't be making friendly anytime soon. All will be revealed, next time on Words- The Best Weapons in the World! Thoughts or suggestions? Tell me in a review, or just a PM. 'til next time!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Any and all familiar-looking things that seem like you've seen them somewhere before are not owned or affiliated with me. These things may include, but are not limited to: the various works of J.K. Rowling; the Doctor Who, Supernatural, Assassin's Creed, Dragon Ball (Z, GT and Super), and Disney franchises. Others may be mentioned, and they are all owned and created by their own various owners, not me.

/*/*/

A/N: Ok, to start, yes, I'm a horrible person to drop off on a cliffhanger like that, but I blame RL and my stupid head for not finding the right inspiration for the story. To be fair, I still feel like I'm not in the right headspace right now, but I'll do my best!

"Tom Marvalo Riddle, Jr."

Harry sighed to himself. _Of course_ that would happen. In using his blood for the ritual, Voldemort would, technically, be able to be considered a sibling in blood if not birth. Which spelled out a lot of possibility for trouble, since anything involving family or blood-related magics would get confused between them and likely end up affecting both him and the Dark Lord. The silver lining would be anyone trying to use that kind of voodoo blood magic would also face the same problem, so that's one less of many things to worry about.

"That's… a bit of a story…," Harry trailed off, "But is that sufficient for determining my identity?"

"Yes, it will suffice. All other keys will be recalled and duplicates will be destroyed," the goblin replied. "Gringotts would also very much like an explanation as to how you could gain a sibling with both your parents dead and this… Tom… not being listed at the last check some months ago. Indeed, Mr. Riddle, to my knowledge, has never appeared in any of our records."

Harry was at an impasse. On the one hand, trusting the goblins with this information would likely smooth things over in the future and possibly even make them a bit less hostile. On the other, this kind of knowledge was dangerous to have. See, one series of books Harry had absolutely loved were the Dungeons and Dragons Adventure guides, because they had _sooooo much_ magic-related things in them. One area of interest that really struck him was the subject of Lich Kings. Undead Dark Sorcerers with armies of skeletons and zombies, basically unkillable and had an extremely annoying habit of resurrecting themselves when you did kill them. Thanks to a companion manual, the Monster Guide, Harry found out why Liches could pull off a Voldemort-esque return from the grave: a phylactery, a.k.a. "Soul Jars." As it turns out, to become a Lich one had to be, of course, magically powerful as well as evil, and perform a ritual of human sacrifice that ended with the would-be Lich tearing out their own heart, binding their soul to it, and then having all their flesh burned off with unholy fire. Painful? Oh yes. Worth it for immortality? Not for Harry.

So he came to a conclusion: Voldemort must have a phylactery somewhere. That knowledge, while concerning in the extreme since Voldemort had to be some sort of Lich hybrid (and explained why the entire country was terrified of him), was ultimately useful. Since, for whatever reason, he had taken _10 effing years_ to make an attempt at a comeback, the simple solution was to just kill him over and over until it was easy to tell just where he kept getting resurrected from. Of course, the typical Lich Return ritual involved the use of the phylactery on yet another victim to bind the soul to a new skeleton, and in the graveyard absolutely nothing like that happened. Maybe it was a work around, since he needed a body to get to his soul jar?

Regardless, that still left him with the dilemma: should he tell them?

The goblin cleared his throat, "Mr. Potter?"

Harry jumped slightly in surprise, not realizing he had been thinking so deeply. The goblin was holding out his vault key. "Thank you, sir," he replied, looking apologetic and taking the offered token, "As to this mystery… What do you know of the events of the latest Triwizard Tournament? Specifically, the conclusion of the final Task?"

"We are aware of your arrival with your, now dead, fellow Hogwarts Champion, and claimed that the Dark Lord had somehow returned from the dead and killed the Diggory boy. We have also been monitoring your Ministry's… reaction."

Harry grimaced, "I haven't had the chance to really see the papers… How bad is it?"

"You are fortunate to have disguised yourself so effectively."

That, from a Goblin? _Yikes._

"Aside from that, and Mr. Dumbledore's insistence on your truthfulness and arguments to prepare for confrontation, we know little. I assume something happened that night to bring this about?"

"Yes, there was a ritual involved that used the quote "blood of the enemy, forcibly taken" end quote. Given the results of your test, it may be safe to assume that my blood now run through Voldemort's veins in their entirety." Harry took a moment to admire how… adult, he sounded. Thank you Raymond E Feist, Robert Jordan, and Roger Zelazny for being such _brill_ writers! He never would have been able to pull off a bit like this without all those speeches and snobby aristocrats from their books.

The goblin _hmm_ -ed, or made an equivalent growling sound, since there seemed to be no anger on its features, "Yes, that would lead to this. So this Mr. Riddle is Voldemort?"

"Yes."

The Goblin fell silent at that, seeming to be thinking deeply. After a moment, it said, seemingly rhetorically, "But how could he have…?"

Discerning where its thoughts were heading, Harry interrupted the train of thought: "Sir?" The goblin looked up at him.

"Have you ever heard of a Lich before?"

/*/*/

Harry, er, _Terry_ walked down Diagon Alley with a spring in his step he hadn't had in _ages_. This little disguise of his was working wonders, and, better yet, he had gotten _Voldemort_ banned from Gringotts after sharing a bit about Liches and soul jars. Saying that Bloodfist (the goblin that confirmed his identity) was disgusted would put it mildly, as he had spent a full minute cursing in his native tongue (and Harry _swore_ he heard some Klingon somewhere in there) and then told him to wait while he went to his superiors. Harry had been surprised at the… vehemence of the reaction, but it was likely death held some sort of important position in their culture and that cheating it was one of the highest of crimes. Regardless, Harry was happy, regardless of how useful it would actually be in the future.

Elsewhere, a butterfly beat its wings.

Now armed with a decent amount of gold, Harry turned Terry set off to find the main goal of his little quest that day: the multi-compartment trunk. This was a vital part to any plans to be made in the future. Some may ask, _Why would a_ trunk _be so bloody important?_ One word: Space. It would be reasonable to believe that Moody, the real one, had been kept in that trunk for some time before the rescue, if not the entire year. That implied that these trunks either had some weird ventilation system or a charm to keep the air within from running out of oxygen. Meaning that, even if he could only afford to make a compartment with bed space, he could essentially live out of his trunk. Meaning no Dursleys, and no way to know where he was. But, judging by what he remembered seeing when he looked down on Moody's form when they found him, he had been lying on the floor of an _entire room_. Meaning Harry could potentially be able to carry around a portable apartment everywhere he went. With a trunk like that, who would bother with a house?

Of course, there was a chance it cost as much as a house… But he could deal with that later.

Terry, the-boy-who-had-nothing-to-do-with-the-Boy-Who-Lived, walked in the front door of Traver's Trunks and Accessories, setting off a chime above the door and somewhere behind the door located behind the empty counter. Terry didn't really notice this much, as he was staring at the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, dozens upon _dozens_ of trunks lining the shop. The sight was, to be honest, a bit ridiculous. Really, did they need to stuff this many trunks into one room?

Luckily, the back-room door opened and a salesman walked up behind the counter, with a greeting of, "Welcome to Traver's Trunks, Makers of Space!" (You could practically hear the ™ on the phrase) "How can I help you?"

"A bit of portable space is exactly what I need!" Terry said, with an open gesture, palms held up and shrugging slightly, "A friend told me about this trunk his uncle had that had _huge_ , like, room-sized compartments, and I wanted to see if you had anything like that. I even had a crazy idea of… well… making it my bachelor pad, a personal apartment I can carry around."

"Ahh, I believe I know what you're looking for… but they tend to be just a bit high on the price scale."

"I've got a budget of a thousand galleons," said Terry directly, with a smirk. Granted, that was a _lot_ of money for most people. A thousand galleons, last he checked, was around £10,000! More than enough to buy an apartment for over a year outright.

"Oh, ah, I see… Well, right this way, my good man! The best trunks we have!"

So began a 2-hour-long trip all around the shop, talking prices, options, design choices, features (This one can hold a live dragon for days!), and everything Harry would ever need to know about any trunk he would ever buy. Terry managed to hold his own rather well, politely and sometimes cleverly avoiding some really unnecessary features like an ejection switch, water room, and even an entire room dedicated to _shoes_. Who in the world would need that?

In the end, Terry ended up getting a modestly furnished, one-bedroom flat, with an attached bathroom and walk-in closet as well as a second trunk space that was 4x larger than it should have been. All in all, Terry thought he had gotten a real steal out of it for only 873 galleons. Which was a very good thing, since the other 127 were marked for stocking what he was sure to be his new home.

And as he thought that, a quiet little puffing device on a table in a certain office of a faraway castle in the highlands stopped puffing. Its cease would go unnoticed for months.

Now fully stocked, clothed and ready to go out on his own, Harry Potter set out for Surrey once again. Even without staying at the Dursleys', there were still a few books he wanted to 'borrow'…

/*/*/


End file.
